


Of Mongolian Exports (And Other Unrelated Topics)

by o_gets_pegged



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Desk Sex, M/M, Mentioned Rose Tyler, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, TenSimm - Freeform, mentioned tenrose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_gets_pegged/pseuds/o_gets_pegged
Summary: “Must we do this every time?” He sounds exhausted, and that won’t do at all.The Master clicks his tongue, leans across his desk. It’s good quality wood, with minimal springs and traps, and it’s sturdy beneath his touch. He’s always been fond of a sturdy desk, for more reasons than one. “I don’t know. Must we?” His fingers curl around the spine of a strategically placed atlas and his face is a breath away from the Doctor’s.“Oh, stop it. I have…” The Doctor steps away and brings his watch up to his face. “An hour. Before I have to get Rose from her mum’s place. Make this quick, will you?”-----Or: slightly hurried sex on the master's new desk, feat. the author not understanding how time passes.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	Of Mongolian Exports (And Other Unrelated Topics)

**Author's Note:**

> Unimportant for whatever little plot there is, but the Master became a professor at a university for the sole purpose of having a bookshelf and appealing to the Doctor's academia kink.

It’s a barebones excuse for contact, even compared to their usual excuses, but the Master can’t exactly say he minds. And his new office is stocked so completely: desk. Table. Plush carpet that he won’t have to clean himself. Sofa pushed against the wall. A hidden drawer of toys, which he’d supplied himself, but occasionally one just has to do more work than one would like. It’s a side effect of existing in this plane of everything, after all.

Oh, and the Doctor. The Doctor is here. The Master muses silently that no room is truly complete without him, especially with the way he’s studying the Master’s figure at the moment. Subtlety has never been this Doctor’s strong suit. 

“Youuuu,” says the Doctor, and he drags out that single, poor syllable long past its intended lifespan. “Are _planning_ something.” He pops his lips on the _p_ of _planning,_ a not entirely unappreciated addition. The Doctor likes to pop his lips this time around. The Master doesn’t not-appreciate _that,_ either. 

“No,” says the Master, emotionless. It’s sarcasm. 

The Doctor examines his fingernails. They’re a bit torn up, for one reason or another, and the Master likes to think it’s because Rose Tyler drove him absolutely mad a couple of days past. “Must we do this _every time_?” He sounds exhausted, and that won’t do at all.

The Master clicks his tongue, leans across his desk. It’s good quality wood, with minimal springs and traps, and it’s sturdy beneath his touch. He’s always been fond of a sturdy desk, for more reasons than one. “I don’t know. Must we?” His fingers curl around the spine of a strategically placed atlas and his face is a breath away from the Doctor’s. 

“Oh, stop it. I have…” The Doctor steps away and brings his watch up to his face. “An hour. Before I have to get Rose from her mum’s place. Make this quick, will you?”

An hour. The Master can work with an hour. Although… _Where to begin?_ A million opportunities. This place is stocked with them. 

The Master picks up the atlas, sits back abruptly in his chair, and flips it open to a page at random. It displays a colorful map of 2013 East Asia, in pinks and yellows and blues, with a cheery information panel about exports and imports and nothing academically stimulating that will arouse the Doctor in any way, shape, or form. Neither of them has ever been very interested in geography, anyway. The atlas was a bad idea.

They’ve been sitting in silence for a long while by now. The Master is uncomfortably aware of the fact. He clears his throat. “I don’t suppose you’d like to hear any interesting facts about the trade in Mongolia.”

“Unfortunately not,” says the Doctor. “What’s your scheme?”

“Nothing, this time around,” the Master admits, and he slams the atlas shut, tosses it back behind his chair. It lands with a satisfying thunk behind him. “Would you believe me, dear Doctor, if I said I wanted to see you?”

“No,” says the Doctor. He sits down across from the Master. Finally. “I told you. An hour. Hurry it all up, will you?”

“Or?” 

“Hurry,” repeats the Doctor with a satisfying growl of frustration. Forget Mongolia and its mineral exports, the Master is suddenly preoccupied with coaxing the Doctor to make that _noise_ again. He isn’t exactly hard yet, but it won’t take much more. “Tell me what you want.”

“And what, you’ll hand it over? Right off the bat?” The Master arches an eyebrow.

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” 

“Then why ask?”

The Doctor kicks back his chair to rest his ankles on the desk between them. The Master doesn’t stop himself from running his eyes up the neat line of his trousers, those wonderfully tight trousers that hug his skinny little legs. “What do you want, Master?”

The Master stands, walks around, leans down. If their faces were close before, they’re positively _touching_ now, and he can hear the Doctor’s breath grow shallower. “What I’ve always wanted,” he says, more casually than necessary, as if to undercut the dramatic tension of the moment. It’s cheesy, honestly. “Stand up. You’re dirtying my desk.” (As if he doesn’t intend to fully dirty it in a moment.)

The legs of the Doctor’s chair tip down so that all four are on the ground again. The Doctor stays sitting, though, and smirks up at the Master. “All right,” he says flippantly. “I’ll bite. What have you always wanted?”

The Master rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”

“Thank you.”

If the Master’s being honest with himself, he really, _really_ wants to kiss the Doctor right now. Lean down and suck that smug grin clean off his face. 

There’s nothing stopping him, he realizes, with a bolt of what feels like divine inspiration. No rules in place against it — and when has the Master played by the rules anyway? — and it’s not as if the Doctor doesn’t look like he’d be opposed to it. Smug grin and all. 

The Doctor kisses back, predictably, sweet and pliable as always, and the Master decides _fuck it_ and pulls him out of his chair, twirls him around, and pushes him against the desk. He yelps as the corner of the desk digs in, presumably, to his lower back, although he squeaks happily when the Master bends him over to press him down appropriately. 

“I want _you_ ,” the Master hisses. It’s cheesy, but if the growing bulge in the Doctor’s pants is any indicator, they’re both equally into it. He thinks he can drown in the Doctor’s kisses, give himself over to his gentle, yielding mouth, stay here forever on top of him. 

“Fifty minutes.”

Right. Time constraint. There’s a million things the Master can do in fifty minutes, although his thoughts aren’t fitting together exactly right so he can’t figure out half of them. He steps back and fiddles with his belt buckle. It takes thirty-three seconds too long. His trousers are off in a minute, and a needy growl from the Doctor ( _yes_!) persuades him to step out of his boxers, too. 

“Forty seven,” says the Doctor, who is now sitting stark naked and cross-legged on top of the Master’s lovely wooden desk. Art on art, thinks the Master. He’s awfully hard by now — when did that happen? (Not that it matters). 

The Master launches himself at the general direction of the desk-top and only gives himself one definite bruise before reaching the Doctor. He’s so warm. How is he so warm? The room has a slight chill, and it raises the hairs on the Master’s legs. The Doctor moans against his mouth. 

“Forty five,” he whispers when they break to gasp for breath. (Neither is fond of the whirring or the burning of their respiratory bypasses, although their superior Gallifreyan anatomy _has_ come in handy once or twice or a couple hundred times.) “Hurry up, Master.”

The Master’s always adored taking his time with this Doctor — he squirms so beautifully, after all. And now the Master is regretting that his gorgeous blue suit is somewhere behind them on the ground, because the Doctor’s hard-on ruining the precise lines of his trousers was a sight to behold. _And_ he’s regretting not getting him up here sooner.

Ah, well. He has what he needs: a desk, the Doctor, the Doctor’s aforementioned hard-on. The Master’d expected all this, and he finds the bottle of lubricant within easy reach. The Doctor watches patiently with his head cocked to the side, tapping an unsteady beat with his fingertips that drives the Master crazy. 

“Forty one minutes, love,” says the Doctor. 

The Master rolls his eyes and generously applies a squirt of the lube to his awaiting cock, and taps the desk in front of him. “However you like.”

The Doctor can’t contain his giggle, and the Master winces — it’s such a _bright_ sound. He settles himself belly-up in front of the Master and wraps his legs around his middle, tugging him closer, and his cock is far too prominent for the Master to resist taking a good long look. This Doctor is such a _pretty_ boy. 

“Thirty nine.”

The Master trails a fingertip up the inside of Doctor’s thigh, eliciting a shiver and the end of a stifled moan. Not good enough. The Master pops his lips, mirroring the Doctor’s motion before. “Thirty nine, you said?”

“Thirty eight,” the Doctor says, grinning all the while. 

“I wonder…” The Master doesn’t intend to tease him — at least not for very long — but a Doctor who _thinks_ he’s about to be relentlessly teased and a Doctor who’s _been_ relentlessly teased are startlingly similar. 

The Doctor wiggles in anticipation. “You wonder?”

“What kinds of sounds you can make after thirty eight minutes of this,” says the Master. “As a scientific query, of course.” He lets his fingers creep towards the Doctor’s cock, brush the underneath all the way from tip to base, and the Doctor rewards him with a long squeak. “Oh, very good.”

“It’s thirty seven now.”

“Shut it.”

“Just saying.” The Doctor reaches forward and pokes the tip of the Master’s nose, giggling. 

“Don’t — you can’t just — Doctor!” The Master’s sure he’s blushing. 

“Oh, look at you.” The Doctor sits up, naked legs still around the Master, his cock pressing into the Master’s naked thigh. The Master’s own cock aches for friction. “You remembered I liked you still in your necktie.”

The Master, self-consciously, fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt. “You’re ruining my fun, you know,” he mumbles, but it isn’t an honest complaint. 

The Doctor kisses him again, and the Master isn’t unaware of the small motion of his hips as he thrusts against the Master’s leg. “I know. I like ruining your fun. You scrunch your face up…”

“You always ruin my fun. All of it.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply, but he leans back down again, in what seems like submission. The Master isn’t sure which one of them has won. The Master wasn’t aware there was going to _be_ a winner, until there was and now there _is_ , although he can’t figure out who it is. “Thirty five minutes,” the Doctor whispers, so low the Master has to strain to hear him. “Master?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

The Master is more than happy to oblige. He lines their hips up with painstaking care before thrusting in once harder than necessary, and the Doctor cries out somewhere in the distance. It’s just the Master now, anyway, the Master and the Doctor’s bare legs around him, and the Doctor’s arse hole and the fact that it feels like genuine fucking velvet. He’s so _warm._ How is he so warm?

The Master pulls out — not all the way, just enough to accentuate his next movement — and plunges himself in again. And again. And again. The Doctor moans on the fourth go-round, a glorious plea that stirs the Master deep within his core.

“Oh, God, there,” he says, his grip on the Master tightening as if to push his cock deeper inside. “Very good, by the way.”

“Shut up.” The Master gives him a nice, long thrust, in presumably the right place, if the Doctor’s prolonged noises are anything to go by. They’re pleasant noises, but the Master wishes he would scream.

“Thirty two minutes,” he says instead. “Thirty two and fifteen seconds. Fuck, Master, you’re very good.”

The Master goes warm all over despite his best efforts. Thirty two minutes is easy. The Master has gotten the Doctor off in two before, after arguing about the physics of opening the TARDIS door underwater. The Doctor has always adored a good dose of physics in his dirty talk. “ _You’re_ fantastic,” he croons, as the Doctor moves in perfect tandem with his every motion, tiny groans escaping from his lips as the Master hits his prostate again and again and again.

“Fuck. Fuck.” The Doctor’s seemingly lost all his vocabulary. The Master wishes he’d do that more often. “God, Master, you’re so lovely, darling, you’re wonderful…” He grasps for the sides of the desk, baring his chest in an uncomfortable yet exhilarating vulnerability. The Master could’ve come right there, if he wasn’t so intent on making the Doctor go first.

The Master searches for a response, but his lips refuse to move and force the words out. He’s far too focused on how tight the Doctor is, how warm he feels, the noises and compliments spilling from his pink, pink lips. This is his best-laid plan yet, he decides.

Thankfully (or perhaps the opposite) the Doctor has more than enough words for either of them. “Touch me, why don’t you? Master, please, old pal, I —” The Doctor cut himself off with a sound between an _oooh_ and a brief moan. 

“Good?”

“More than good. Touch me.”

The Master’s eyes flick down to the Doctor’s cock, dripping with pre-come, and he considers taking it. “How long.”

“Sorry?”

“How long do we have?”

“Twenty… I don’t know. Twenty something. Fuck. Twenty something.” Typical, that this Doctor would talk _more_ when he was being held down and fucked within an inch of his life. Absolutely typical. 

Twenty something minutes, and the Master wants time to spare afterwards, even though he claims he hates when the Doctor acts all clingy. He would never admit that he doesn’t, in fact, despise their cozy, sleepy cuddles (and _fine_ , maybe even _likes_ them), but the truth stands: the Master can be terribly soft-hearted, on occasion. 

He smiles to himself, adjusts the angle of his hips. The Doctor whimpers beneath him. He gives one last, urgent thrust, his balls slapping against the Doctor’s arse, and the Doctor comes with a shouted expletive for the empty office to hear, spasming around the Master’s cock. The Master comes shortly after. He can’t stop himself from calling out his husband’s name, and it echoes around the room due to the near lack of furniture.

The Doctor’s smug grin is back by the time the Master’s vision clears. “You’re lying on top of me,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” says the Master. “That does seem to be the case, doesn’t it.”

“Get off.”

The Master tries to convince himself to get up, but his muscles refuse to comply. There are worse places to be than collapsed atop the Doctor on a desk in a university office. “I’d love to, promise.”

The Doctor grunts and shoves him aside, nearly sending him toppling off the desk altogether. “It’s not very comfortable, you know.”

“You weren’t complaining a minute ago.”

“Shut it.”

“You first.” The Master giggles and presses a kiss to the Doctor’s earlobe, lazily snagging it with his teeth, because he’s never too sleepy to have a bit of fun. The Doctor swats him away. “Couch. I have a couch.”

“Or we could get back to the TARDIS. Find a bed.”

“Eh.”

The Doctor ruffles the Master’s hair. “Really. With a blanket and everything.”

“This place needs cleaning up.”

“Don’t you have a cleaning service?” The Master opens his mouth to respond, but the Doctor interrupts him before he gets the chance. “And don’t say anything about embarrassing yourself. I know you were only here to do… that… and then pop out. Unless you _do_ have a scheme for me to foil?”

“Nah. Just the sex, really.”

“Oh,” says the Doctor, sounding more than a little crestfallen. “That’s all right, I suppose. It wasn’t bad.”

“It was _good_.”

“I suppose.”

“I…” says the Master. “I may have a scheme or two waiting to be foiled. That is, if you have the time for it.”

“I’m sure Rose wouldn’t mind foiling with me. As long as you wouldn’t mind.”

The Master’s face pinks again. “Rose? Erm, no, I don’t think I would. If she’d like to come along.”

“Don’t tell me!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

The Doctor kisses his forehead and hums tunelessly, playing with the Master’s tie. “Someone’s got a crush, don’t you?”

“I do not.”

“You’ve got good taste.”

“I have _horrible_ taste.” The Master clears his throat. “How long?”

“Nineteen minutes.”

“You should probably get going,” says the Master. 

“Although…”

“Although?”

The Doctor presses his lips to the Master’s forehead again, then to his left cheek, then his right. The Master feels pleasantly framed. “I _do_ have a time machine. If you’d like to go to bed and stay for a bit.”

“A bit. Before I put my scheme together.”

The Doctor pauses (in hesitation, the Master wonders?) for a moment. “You have to stand up, you know.”

“You first.”

Neither of them stand. The Master presses his face against the Doctor’s bare chest and begins to kiss every freckle he can find. The Doctor seizes his wrist and traces lazy Gallifreyan poetry across it, letting the sigils creep up his forearm. 

“I’m glad you came over,” says the Master, after a while.

The Doctor doesn’t reply. The Master doesn’t need to be a skilled telepath (although he _is_ , make no mistake about it) to understand what he’s thinking. _I’m glad I did too._


End file.
